


nobody wants to hear you sing about tragedy

by albypotter



Category: Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: M/M, orchestra AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:46:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25318525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/albypotter/pseuds/albypotter
Summary: After almost seven years at Hogwarts, Albus has his music to keep him company, he's settled into an easy routine, and it's... okay. What he'snotexpecting is for Scorpius Malfoy, reluctant Hogwarts celebrity, to crash into his comfort zone and drag him further out of it than he's ever been before. Maybe it will be better than okay.
Relationships: Scorpius Malfoy/Albus Severus Potter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi! i have not posted in forever! i have been thinking about this fic for approximately nine months now and i love it a lot! hope you do too! will hopefully update quickly since i've mostly finished writing but who knows!
> 
> title from disloyal order of water buffaloes by fall out boy

Sometimes, Albus wonders whether he’s been cursed. He goes to all the effort of forcing himself out of his warm bed into the freezing early-morning air, skips breakfast to save time, takes the treacherous castle staircases at a jog — and still, by the time he makes it to the third floor music corridor and pulls his cello case out from the instrument cupboard, every single practice room is taken. He could try looking for the Room of Requirement, of course, but the prospect of dragging an instrument almost as tall as he is up to the fifth floor only to maybe find a space for the good, long practice he desperately needs isn’t particularly thrilling. Fuck it. He’ll take Professor Neale’s classroom and risk the consequences. Technically, students aren’t allowed to use any space other than the designated practice rooms for music, but it’s a Saturday, and there’s no one else around to see him sneak in. Professor Neale seems to have a soft spot for him anyway. He’ll most likely get away without a detention even if she does catch him.

There are a lot of things Albus loves about being a musician, but the routine is one of his favourites. There’s a satisfying click under his fingers as he opens the case, pulling out first his music, then a rubber stop. It bounces as he drops it on the floor between the stand and the chair he’s set up, but it’s enchanted to always land the right way up. He tightens the hairs on his bow, twisting the screw until they're taut, and bounces it on his wrist to test the tension. And then his cello. He unhooks the loop of elastic that holds it in place and sits down with it to pluck a few chords before picking up his bow from the stand. He's been playing these strings for about two years now, and they're starting to feel worn out, sounding a little too metallic if he plays too high – he wants to ask for a new set for his birthday, but until then these will do fine. He likes that they've been stretched out so that his instrument stays mostly in tune from day to day, anyway. 

He plays scales as a warmup, like he always does. He hates them, bored of the simple repetition, the same finger patterns over and over, but he knows deep down that they're worth the practice. He does his usual set, then cycles back to G major before flipping to the sonata he's working on at the moment. It's almost perfect, or at least almost performable, and he's hoping to audition with it as a soloist for the student concert at the end of the year. There's a minor section in the first movement that he's unhappy with almost every time he plays it – it switches between soft and intense every few bars, and the transitions aren't as smooth as he wants them to be yet. Albus is on his seventh run through, working his way up to full speed, and he thinks it's getting better already when he notices that he's being watched.

"That's sounding good," Scorpius Malfoy says from the doorway. Scorpius Malfoy – reluctant Hogwarts celebrity, Hufflepuff Quidditch team's star Chaser, Hogwarts youth orchestra's principal violist, generally regarded by  _ absolutely everyone _ as one of the most talented young musicians they’ve seen in years.  _ That _ Scorpius Malfoy.

"Um, thanks," Albus manages, trying very hard not to sound like an idiot, utterly baffled by the fact that  _ Scorpius Malfoy _ thinks he sounds  _ good _ . "What are you doing in here?"

"I overslept, and all the practice rooms are full," Scorpius says, with a smile that tells Albus that he knows they're both in the same boat here. "I figured Neale would let me practice in here, but I guess you beat me to it."

Albus could, and probably  _ should _ give up his rehearsal space to the best musician in the school, but he's just starting to get really into his practice and wasn't planning to stop any time soon. "You could always try the Room of Requirement," he suggests instead.

Scorpius raises an eyebrow at him. "It actually opens for you?" he asks, and Albus is momentarily unsure of whether or not he should be offended. 

"Only sometimes," he says quickly, cheeks burning. "But I haven't been able to get in there in weeks, so mostly I don't bother."

"Ah, well," Scorpius says, "maybe it will finally take pity on me this time. See you later, Albus." 

Albus watches him leave, trying desperately to convince himself that the way he stares at Scorpius's delicate fingers as they twist the door handle is perfectly normal. He definitely doesn't have a crush. It's a... detached interest, that's all. 

He goes back to his sonata, but now his head is filled with thoughts of Scorpius wandering the fifth floor corridors, concentrating so hard on finding the Room of Requirement that maybe he has that soft crease between his eyebrows that Albus has seen him wear in particularly stressful orchestra rehearsals. When he realises that he's fumbled the same glissando three times in his distraction, overshooting the top note each time, he decides it's time for a break. He pulls out his tattered copy of the Bach solo suites, held together with Spellotape and sheer determination, and spends the hour before he has to leave for orchestra rehearsal running through his favourite movements.

* * *

Orchestra is about as chaotic as it usually is. Teenagers are never on time for anything, and musicians even less so, so it seems to Albus that their conductor exists in a permanent state of frustration. Albus slides into his seat next to Rose at the front of their section just in time to avoid being called out by name for his lateness. 

"He's in a horrible mood today," Rose informs him, gesturing with her bow at their conductor, Ed. "I suppose the N.E.W.T.s are getting to him."

Albus opens his mouth to tell Rose that the N.E.W.T.s are getting to everybody, and that being Ravenclaw enough to insist on taking nearly twice as many subjects as everyone else as well as conducting an orchestra in his free time is no excuse, but Ed raps his baton on his stand, and silence falls.

"We're starting with the Butterworth, folks," he announces, and there's the sound of paper shuffling all around the room as everyone scrambles to find the right piece. "No viola principal today? That's a shame."

Albus glances to his right with a start, and sure enough, there's an empty seat in the section where Scorpius should be. "I saw him earlier," he whispers to Rose. "He tried to poach my practice room this morning." This is only technically true, but it's worth it for the bizarre look Rose gives him. 

"What?" she hisses, but she's interrupted by the clarinet solo that starts the piece off, and Albus drags his gaze back to the music and drops into his favourite kind of trance, losing himself in music for the next hour.

Scorpius shows up right at the end of the rehearsal, just as Albus is packing away. "You're late," Albus says, absent-mindedly, then realises that he probably shouldn't be so familiar with someone he barely knows, even if he's secretly been watching him in rehearsals every week for an embarrassingly long while.

"I know," Scorpius frowns. "For some reason the Room of Requirement didn't think I needed a clock." 

Albus grins. "You found it?"

"Yeah, finally," Scorpius says, with a little smile.  _ Adorable _ , Albus thinks, then shakes his head as if to knock the offending thought away. "It only took me six and a half years. But I came to look for you, actually."

"Oh?" Albus can feel the heat of a blush spreading across his cheeks. "What for?" It's lucky, he thinks, that most of the other students have already left and the orchestra room is nearly empty. Rose would never let him live it down if she saw him blushing in front of Scorpius like this.

"I wanted to get a string quartet together for the end of year concert," Scorpius says, "and I thought you might be interested. I already checked it with Neale, and we won’t have to audition or anything. She  _ trusts me, _ apparently." 

Albus watches him closely for a moment, but Scorpius doesn't seem to be joking. "Are you sure you want me? Rose already turned you down, did she?"

"Rose?"

"Granger-Weasley," Albus clarifies. "You know, seventh year, Slytherin, kind of a know-it-all? Principal cellist?"

"Oh," Scorpius frowns. "Yeah, she seems a bit... intense. Not sure we'd get on."

This is what most people say about Rose, but it's strange to hear it from Scorpius. Albus would have expected him to pick his quartet based on talent alone – and Albus knows that Rose is miles ahead of him when it comes to music, as well as everything else.

"So, what do you think?" Scorpius asks, and Albus realises that he's been staring blank-faced as he tries to figure out why Scorpius could possibly want to work with him. 

"Um, sure," Albus says quickly, eyes darting back to his cello case, desperate for something to do other than gawk at the utterly gorgeous boy he most definitely doesn't have a crush on. "What are we playing?"

"Nothing's set in stone yet," Scorpius says. "I found some Mozart that I want to try, but other than that I'm not sure. I'm open to suggestions, if you have any ideas?"

Albus doesn’t think he could remember a single piece if his life depended on it right now, with Scorpius’s eyes on him like this. "I’ll have a think," he says instead. "I have to go now, I’m late for... um. Homework. I have Charms homework." 

Albus reminds himself to keep breathing, regardless of how Scorpius is watching him in that quiet, severe way of his, regardless of how they’re now alone in the room together. He clicks the last fastening on his case closed, flashes Scorpius a quick, forced smile, and heads for the door. Rose is outside waiting for him, beaming. He walks straight past her, but her smug aura follows him down the corridor. 

"What were you doing in there with Scorpius Malfoy, Al?" she asks, and Albus groans. 

"Embarrassing myself, that’s what. He wants me to join his quartet, and I told him I was late for Charms homework."

"That’s amazing! Well, not the ‘late for homework’ part so much, but maybe this is your chance to get to know him a bit better?" 

Albus stops by the door to the music cupboard, resisting the urge to bang his head against the wall. "I can’t do it, though." 

Rose frowns at him. "Why not?"

"You know why not!" Albus hisses, glancing over Rose’s shoulder to make sure they’re still alone. "I’ve had a crush on him for nearly a whole year. He’s spoken to me twice today and I’m a total mess already. If I spend any more time with him, I think my head might explode." 

Rose just smiles knowingly, and it’s infuriating. "What?" Albus snaps, then immediately feels bad. This isn’t Rose’s fault, after all – she might even be trying to help him. 

"Nothing. It’s just, it’s funny how much you’re into him." 

"It’s not funny, Rose, it’s ruining my life!"

Rose pats him on the shoulder. "Then do something about it," she stage-whispers, as the door to the hall creaks open and Scorpius appears. Albus smiles faintly as he walks past them. 

"Merlin, you really are hopeless," Rose says after he’s gone. 

"Yeah, I know," Albus says. "Now I have to go and do this bloody Charms homework." 

* * *

On Monday, Scorpius passes Albus at breakfast and drops a neatly folded square of parchment on the table by his elbow. It’s too early and Albus is too sleepy to panic about it immediately, so he unfolds the note to read in between gulps of coffee. 

_ A, _

_ First rehearsal tomorrow at 7 in the big practice room. Found something fun for us to play as well as Mozart. _

_ S _

Scorpius has drawn a smiley face right after his name and scribbled a lopsided bass clef and a few quaver notes in the bottom corner of the page. It’s almost unbearably cute, and Albus is still grinning stupidly when Rose slides into the bench next to him and steals the last slice of toast off his plate. 

"A letter from your boyfriend, already?" 

"Shut up," Albus mumbles, crumpling the parchment and stuffing it into his robes. "Don’t call him that. And don’t eat my food." 

"What does it say?" Rose asks, around a mouthful of toast. 

"Rehearsal details," Albus says, downing his coffee and getting up to go before Rose can interrogate him any further. "I’ll see you in Arithmancy later." 

He spends the rest of the morning distracted, preoccupied by thoughts of thin scratchy handwriting and smiley face doodles. Rose, ever the attentive student, doesn't bother him about it in class, and instead waits until they're out in the corridor and heading to lunch.

"So, you're doing it, then? The quartet?"

"Yes, Rose, I suppose I am doing it. Why are you so invested, anyway?"

Rose's eyes gleam dangerously. "Well, I've been thinking, and I might have figured out why Scorpius asked you." 

"Oh?" 

"He has a crush on you."

Albus stops dead at the top of the stairs. It's a ridiculous idea, of course, but even the thought of it makes his heart race. "What on Earth gave you that impression?" he asks, dreading the answer.

"Well, obviously he's into you! There must be something, why else would he have asked you instead of... um, anyone else?"

She’s tried to cover for herself last minute, but the unspoken implication is obvious.  _ Why would anyone pick you as a cellist over me? _ It's an uncomfortable reminder of what their family has been trying not to point out for years. Ron and Hermione are  _ so _ proud of their daughter, the  _ musician _ , who was section leader by age 15, who has been approached by various people high up in the Musical Wizards' Association looking to recruit her after graduation, only to turn them down because she wants to focus on becoming a Healer. Albus's parents are proud too, of course, but Albus knows he's just mediocre. He's always the one left behind. Left out. Suddenly he finds he's not very hungry anymore.

"I'm going back to the common room," he says, and turns back to hop back onto the staircase just before it moves away. Rose calls after him, apologising, but thankfully she can't reach him, and he jogs down the stairs away from her voice. He wanders the corridors for a while, worried that Rose might be waiting for him in the Slytherin common room even though she should know that he doesn't want to see her right now. His mind is filling up with nasty things he wants to say to her ( _ maybe Scorpius thinks you're an insufferable smart-ass, just like the rest of the school does _ ) but deep down he knows she's right. Not about Scorpius; about  _ him _ . He's not as good as she is, and it shouldn't matter because they're not competing, not really, but it still hurts. He finds himself making his way towards the music corridor, on autopilot, but he knows he's too wound up to practice effectively right now. Most of the practice rooms he passes are empty, like they usually are during school hours, and Albus heads down to the end of the corridor and out onto the little balcony that overlooks the lake. It's one of his favourite places in the school; only the music students really know about it, and he hardly ever sees anyone else out there. It's unusually warm for March, and the sunlight sparkles over the lake like a trail of gold. He can  _ breathe _ out here, he can let himself relax in a way that only happens when he’s truly alone. Hogwarts has been good to him, but there are always people around, and sometimes he catches himself wishing for everyone to just disappear. And then he feels deeply guilty and ungrateful for it. He’s leaning out over the balcony, watching the birds soar over the grounds, wishing to be one of them, when there’s a quiet voice behind him.

“What are you doing out here?”

Albus keeps watching the birds and wonders distantly how Scorpius manages to keep sneaking up on him. He must move more quietly than a ghost. “Nothing, really,” he says out into the open air, not looking at Scorpius until he joins him by the railings of the balcony. “Hiding from my cousin.” He’s not sure why Scorpius needs to know this, but his contemplative mood has apparently dimmed his brain-to-mouth filter. Albus presses his lips together in an attempt to remind himself not to say anything else stupid.

“Don’t you have a class to go to?”

Albus checks his watch and curses under his breath. Potions started five minutes ago, and he’s four floors away from the dungeons. It’s fine, he thinks. He can skip one class. Rose might worry, but he doesn’t really care what she thinks of him at the moment.

“Don’t  _ you _ ?” He’s not sure where the words come from, but he gulps them out, then mentally slaps himself. Who is he, to tell Scorpius Malfoy what to do? But Scorpius only smiles, surprisingly sweetly, and shakes his head. Albus watches his blond hair swish in the wind and tries not to wonder what it would be like to tangle his hands in it.  _ Not a crush, just a detached interest _ , he reminds himself firmly.

“I have a free period,” Scorpius says. “I dropped Muggle Studies back in January. Father says it’s a ‘soft subject’.” He puts the phrase in air quotes, and there’s a tinge of sarcasm. Maybe some bitterness, too.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested in Muggle Studies,” Albus says. He knows Scorpius is the practical magic type. They were in Duelling club together in fourth year, long before Albus had his unfortunate realisation about how attractive someone who is both a musician and a Quidditch player can be, but he still remembers Scorpius excelling. Scorpius seems to excel at everything. Albus tries not to be bitter about it.

“Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts,” Scorpius lists off on his fingers. “On father’s recommendation, of course. Too academic for my liking, but I don’t mind them. Except Potions. I’m dreadful at Potions.”

_ So he’s not perfect _ , Albus thinks, before immediately being disgusted at himself for it. Being better than Scorpius at one subject doesn’t mean anything, after all.

“Potions isn’t so bad,” he says. “I used to be awful, too, but my dad gave me some tips. I can help you, if you like.”

Scorpius half smiles, but his eyes look distant. “Maybe. I wouldn’t want to eat into your practice time, though.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.” Scorpius shakes his head a little, then looks back out over the lake, and Albus is distracted by the wind in that gorgeous white-blond hair again. “Just that, you’re in the practice rooms all the time. You must really love it.”

“Don’t you?” Albus asks slowly. He’s not sure where this is going, and he’s not sure he likes it. Scorpius seems darker, more closed off all of a sudden, and it’s strange.

“Oh, I do,” Scorpius says, and it’s breezy and light and  _ fake _ . So fake. It doesn’t make sense – but, then again, when has anything he’s learned about Scorpius recently made sense? “I don’t have much time to practice any more, that’s all. What with schoolwork, and Quidditch, and… other things.” Scorpius straightens out from where he’s been leaning against the railings of the balcony and looks at Albus again. “I’ll see you later, Albus.”

Albus watches him leave, guilt laying heavy and low in his stomach. He skips the rest of his classes to practice, but he doesn’t make much progress. All his thoughts are of Scorpius and the strange grey darkness of his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

The others Scorpius recruits for their quartet seem nice enough. Their first violin is a Slytherin Albus recognises as a fifth-year prefect, and the second is a Gryffindor he’s never seen before. The largest practice room has just enough space to fit them all in, and Albus leaves his cello case out in the corridor once he's finished unpacking so that it's out of the way. He makes a point not to look at Scorpius too much, or for too long; he doesn’t understand what happened yesterday on the balcony, not really, but it feels tight and wrong and he can’t tell whether Scorpius is upset with him. There's already music on his stand when he sits down: the Mozart Scorpius mentioned on Saturday, and a suite for string orchestra by Holst. Scorpius seems strangely nervous as they start, in a way that Albus has never seen him be before, but maybe it's not so unusual. The end of year concert is over a month away, but with exams, they only have a handful of rehearsals to get their piece together. The rehearsal runs smoothly, though; Scorpius plays perfectly, of course, as he always does, and from what Albus can tell, the others seem just as good. He feels inadequate, like an impostor, like Scorpius _really_ should have just asked Rose instead, and the feeling only grows like a weight in his wrists and his fingers as the rehearsal goes on. _Rose wouldn’t have slipped and missed that note. Rose wouldn’t have messed up that phrase like he did. Rose would have better intonation, better tuning, better everything._ Every mistake he makes only makes him worse, and by the end his shoulders are far too tight and his face is screwed up in frowning concentration, but he still can’t get things right. The violinists watch him with guarded eyes, and he has no idea what they’re thinking but he knows it can’t be good. _He shouldn’t be here._

Scorpius taps Albus on the shoulder as he’s packing away afterwards, feather-light, so much so that he thinks it’s accidental. So he ignores it. But it happens again.

“Albus.”

He clicks the last fastening on his case closed before he turns around. The others are gone, and Scorpius is standing much too close to him.

“Everyone has off days, you know. This was only one rehearsal.”

Somehow, that makes Albus even angrier. How does Scorpius just _know_ how wound up he is? His mother has always said that he’s an open book, that he wears his thoughts for everyone to see, but he’s never really believed her until now. Is he really that obvious?

“You should ask Rose to play with you instead,” Albus says, voice tight, fixing his gaze on a point on the wall in front of him, looking just past Scorpius instead of at him. He keeps looking past him as Scorpius shakes his head.

“No. I want _you_ , Albus. Rose is – well, she’s fine, but I’ve watched you both. She’s too… clinical about it. I want your emotion in my music.”

Albus dares a glance at Scorpius’ face – it’s much too close to his, and much too sincere. Those eyes are practically daring him to disagree, so he doesn’t bother, just turns to pick up his cello and his school bag and push past Scorpius to the door to the little practice room.

“Same time on Thursday,” Scorpius calls after him.

* * *

Thursday’s rehearsal is better, and the one after that is better still. Albus feels like he should still be on edge, but he’s more relaxed despite himself. The notes just bounce out of him, into the air, and the way they sound along with the others’ instruments feels good. It feels _real,_ like he’s a part of something really special, and it’s a completely new sensation; orchestral music has never felt quite like this before. It’s bizarre, but Albus thinks he likes it.

Scorpius is better too. Or at least, talking to him is better. Less nerve-wracking. Albus’ heart doesn’t beat out of his chest any time a tall blond passes him in the hallway anymore, and he goes out of his way to smile at Scorpius when he sees him. Scorpius always smiles back – sometimes sweet, sometimes tight, but he always smiles. And Albus always glows.

May has crept up on him, and along with it his final year exams. It’s odd to think that this year is the last time he’ll be doing this: his last year hoarding his favourite seat by leaving his Arithmancy textbook and notes and an old quill there overnight. His last year wandering the aisles, so deep in the seemingly endless library that he swears there’s no natural light reaching him, looking for books on high-up shelves. He still needs a ladder for anything further up than the fourth shelf; that will never change. His last year taking all his study breaks in the practice room with the sonata he’s been working on for the past few months. It’s frustratingly close to being as perfect as he’ll ever get it to be, and knowing that he’ll have to drag himself away from it and back to the library is more painful than the rote-memorisation he has to do for Ancient Runes. He catches himself tapping out the fingerings on his textbooks, and on his parchment – the number of times he’s smudged freshly-made notes as he does so is too high to count. The constant _scourgify_ spells are good practice for his practical exam, at least.

Auditions for the concert are the Monday of the week before exams start. It’s cruel, having the two so close together – Albus _knows_ which is more important to him, which he’d rather focus on, but he also knows that if he doesn’t get his N.E.W.T. grades, his job prospects will be awful. He splits his time between the library and the music corridor, and all but gives up on sleep entirely. He’s running on fumes, he can feel it, and he can feel that he’s going to have to give in at some point, but he can’t stop. It’s all too important.

Rose catches up to him on the Saturday before as he’s climbing the stairs to the third floor at midnight and gets his foot stuck in a fake step. He’s trying to pull himself out (not very hard, admittedly, because he’s exhausted and stressed and this feels like a sign that he should just give up and go to sleep right here on the staircase) when she appears a few steps above him.

“Do you need help, or are you stuck on purpose?”

Albus resists the urge to roll his eyes. He and Rose haven’t spoken much, not since what she said about Scorpius and what she didn’t say about his musical prowess, but she seems to be back to her old sarcastic self.

“Why would I get stuck in the staircase on purpose?” he asks, as Rose grabs his arm and yanks him upwards. The step lets out an unpleasant _squelch_ as it releases his ankle.

“We’ve been here seven years, Albus. You’d think that you would know which the fake steps are by now.”

She has a point, but he doesn’t want to concede it. He focuses on brushing the dust off his robes and collecting his school bag from a few steps below where he dropped it before.

“Where are you going, anyway?” Rose asks, and it’s uncomfortable all over again. Rose is a big believer in things like _planning_ and _study schedules_ and _designated rehearsal time_. If he tells her that he’s on his way to practice because he fell asleep on a pile of books in the library earlier and missed dinner, she’ll tell his parents. Sometimes having as many cousins at this school as he does is desperately frustrating. But there’s nowhere else he could reasonably be going other than the music corridor.

“Wanted to squeeze a bit of practice in before bed,” he mumbles, and stifles a yawn. Rose sighs in that put-upon way she has and grabs his wrist to pull him back down the stairs in the direction of the dungeons.

“No, you’re not. You’re going to sleep, properly, or I’m owling your dad first thing tomorrow morning. It’s after curfew, anyway.”

Albus wants to object, but he’s too tired. He can do extra practice tomorrow to make up for it. He lets his cousin lead him back to the Slytherin common room and falls into bed without even thinking about it. _Family can be good sometimes_ , he reminds himself as he drifts off. _Sometimes_.

* * *

He spends all of Sunday in the practice room. Ancient Runes can wait, he’s decided; this is more important. Getting into the concert as a soloist is more important. It’s his last chance, and there are only three spots for school leavers – he needs to get one of them. But everything he tries, all day, just sounds _wrong_ . Tight and scratchy and flat. He messes up even the easiest things. _You’re always like this the day before an audition_ , he reminds himself, trying to breathe deeply but only managing to get a nose full of the dust particles he brushed off the piano earlier. _It will be fine tomorrow_ . He keeps playing, even though he knows it’s pointless when he’s in this mood. He can’t relax, and if he can’t relax, everything sounds terrible. He tries playing all the way though, like a performance, but he has to stop and shake his wrists out between movements because he’s too tense. Everything is tense, and Albus feels his anxiety like a dark roiling mass in his stomach, dragging him down. It spreads throughout the day; in the morning he’s okay, but by lunch time he’s lost his appetite, and he skips dinner entirely in favour of going back to the common room for a nap. _It will be fine tomorrow_ , he tells himself. _It will be fine_.

And it is fine. Mostly, anyway. He picked the first audition slot on the list so that he didn’t have time to panic about it in the morning, and he’s up early to run through the last few tricky parts again. He doesn’t bother with breakfast. The darkness in his chest is back again in full force as he stops outside the door to the audition room to compose himself. _It will be fine_.

He plays well, he thinks. Maybe not well enough to be certain of his spot in the concert, but he’s proud of his performance anyway. Rose meets him afterwards with a glass of pumpkin juice and a sandwich from the dining hall, and they sit out on the back lawn looking over the lake. Albus can tell she’s thinking about work instead of paying attention – the look on her face as she listens to him talk is the same as his aunt’s when James and Teddy start on about Quidditch – but Rose doesn’t drag him back to the library until late afternoon, when their shadows start to stretch out across the grass and the sky turns orange-pink. Albus pushes all thoughts of music from his mind (as much as he’s able to, because there are always notes in his head) and forces himself back into studying. His first exam is Arithmancy, and these equations aren’t going to solve themselves.

* * *

He doesn’t get the spot.

He tries to tell himself that it’s okay.

* * *

Exams week is as stressful as it’s ever been, but Albus finds himself surprisingly calm. He doesn’t question it; just takes his lack of nerves as the gift it seems like on the surface and keeps working. He had forgotten, in all of the panic around his audition, how much he actually _enjoys_ school now. It’s nice to be able to sit with a page of runes or instructions for a potion and be able to understand what’s going on. When he was younger, he thought magic was all about how fast you could get things done – because why bother being a wizard if you can’t do things faster and better than the Muggles? – but he’s slowed down in the last few years. Magic is something he can take his time over now, to read and absorb this ancient knowledge and appreciate it for what it is: a gift. _It’s just nostalgia_ , he tells himself, when he realises how strange and melancholic his train of thought is. He’ll be leaving Hogwarts forever, soon. He can afford a little nostalgia.

Where his magic is slow, his music is fast, and only getting faster, but not in the way he wants. He’s still been practicing that same sonata, now that exams are over; it feels pointless, because he won’t be performing it in the concert, but he doesn’t quite want to let go of it yet. Other pieces he’s played have started to go stale after a while, but this one still feels fresh and new and open when he looks at it. Albus has always been terrified of performance, never used to enjoy anything other than orchestral playing, because the thought of making himself and his music vulnerable like that only encouraged fear instead of excitement. But now, with this piece? It _wants_ to be performed. The early June days are only getting hotter, and the practice rooms are small and cramped and windowless, so he leaves the door open and lets his sound spill out into the corridors. No one is listening; now that exams are over, the entire student body seems to have moved outside permanently, but it feels wonderfully freeing to fill any space larger than the one he’s been given. He feels free, himself. Exams are over, _school_ is over forever, and he feels free.

The string quartet meets twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Albus had tried to quit once again, after another especially bad rehearsal, but Scorpius just ignored his protests and said that he expected to see him back next week. And Albus wasn’t going to argue with Scorpius like that, hard and focused and so _determined_ to be right. So he stayed on. The violinists are less intimidating to him, now that he knows them a little better, but it’s still only Scorpius that ever acknowledges him outside of the practice room. Albus is sure he just notices Scorpius more because of his huge, embarrassing crush on him ( _there’s no use denying it, not anymore, not when he spends every free moment in rehearsals watching him, and often when he should be focusing on the music too),_ but it seems as though Scorpius is suddenly everywhere that Albus is. Albus can’t decide whether that’s a good thing or not.

* * *

The concert is just over a week away, and Albus is running late to rehearsal. He finally reaches the music corridor, ten minutes after he would normally get there, but there’s no one in their usual room. Strange. He’s about to start setting up anyway, when he spots Sam at the end of the corridor.

“Hey,” he says, waving her down. “Did I get the time wrong?”

Her face is unreadable as usual. “No,” she says slowly, like it should be obvious. “I was just coming to tell Sofia that rehearsal was off today. I thought you’d know.”

“What?”

Sam frowns at him. “Weren’t you at the Quidditch game?”

Albus has been avoiding Quidditch in general since his not-crush on Scorpius started. He doesn’t need any more excuses to stare.

“No,” he says. “Why? What happened?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hello! bc some people have asked: yes i did start posting this late last year, i took it down for editing and to finish it properly but it is now back for good! enjoy the cliffhanger :)


	3. Chapter 3

Albus skids into the hospital wing to see Scorpius in tattered yellow Quidditch robes with his arm in a sling, a menacing bottle by his bedside. 

“SkeleGro?” Albus asks, in lieu of a hello. “How did you manage to _lose_ your _arm bones_?”

“They were, ah, sort of poking out of my skin,” Scorpius says faintly. “One of the Gryffindor Beaters got a bit upset when we won again and smacked a Bludger right at me. Madam Pomfrey said this would be easier than trying to put them back in. It doesn’t really feel easier, though.”

“I can only imagine,” Albus replies, flexing his own wrists. He’s suddenly very grateful to have them intact. “Will you be alright?”

It's a heavy question, and they both know it. Albus sits on the edge of the bed near Scorpius's crossed ankles, and Scorpius shifts a little, then winces.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, “good as new. Not in time for the concert, though. Apparently freshly grown bones are quite brittle. Madam Pomfrey is making me swear off playing properly for a few weeks.”

“Weeks?” Albus thinks he might die if he couldn’t play for weeks. “Oh, Scorpius, I’m so sorry. That’s awful.” Albus’s mind is racing. They’ll have to find another violist for the string quartet, but not Maisie Abbott, she’s terrible – or would Scorpius mind them replacing him? The group was his idea in the first place. And his solo piece…

“It’s okay. A few weeks is nothing. At least it’s not forever.” And, really, only a Hufflepuff could be this optimistic about having to regrow bones. 

“I’m going to recommend you to take my soloist spot in the concert.”

Albus’s mind is off, floating far away, trying to imagine how he could survive in a world without music, but Scorpius’s words jolt him back into reality. 

“You’re _what_?” Albus can’t believe his ears. This can’t be real. “You can do that?”

“Well, I don’t know yet,” Scorpius says, with a rueful smile. “But I know you made the shortlist when you auditioned, and Neale is going to have to replace me now at short notice and you’re concert-ready. I know you are; I’ve heard you play. So I don’t see why not.”

Albus’ mind catches on the phrase _I know you made the shortlist_ – he didn’t know that. How did Scorpius know it? But there’s too many other things happening to wonder about it right now. He files it away in his mind for later.

“But I can’t replace you. You’re... well, you’re _you_ . Scorpius Malfoy. I can’t replace _you_.”

“Albus,” Scorpius says, and suddenly his uninjured hand is on Albus’ thigh and Albus thinks he might die and ascend into the ceiling if Scorpius doesn’t stop whatever this is immediately. “You’re a better musician than you realise. Trust me.”

It’s all too much. Scorpius and his surprising, too-confident honesty and the little twitchy movements of his delicate fingers against his school trousers and the proximity. It’s too much for Albus. His mind is carefully blank as he stands and takes a few steps back. He can’t look straight at Scorpius – he’s like a glowing sun, Albus thinks, and if he tries to look at him directly, he’ll burn up from the inside.

“I have to go,” he says, abrupt, then curses himself for not thinking of a better excuse, but the words in his brain won’t organise themselves in time for him to say anything else. He holds Scorpius’ hard gaze for a moment too long, then turns and runs out of the hospital wing. He doesn’t stop running until he reaches the practice rooms.

* * *

“Hey,” comes a soft voice from behind him.

It’s late, late enough that the library is entirely empty, as far as he can see. Albus had thought he was alone, but he recognises the voice.

“Hey,” he says back, slow, barely looking up from his book. Scorpius sits down next to him.

There’s a long silence, stretching out just enough to be awkward. Albus opens his mouth to say something – he’s not sure what – but Scorpius is already speaking.

“I didn’t think there’d be anyone in here,” he says. “I’m not – I wasn’t following you, or anything, I just don’t want to see anyone right now. People keep trying to talk to me about – well. You know.”

“Well, I’m here,” Albus gestures to himself and immediately feels foolish about it. “So…”

Scorpius watches him with dark eyes, and Albus feels uncomfortably exposed. Like Scorpius can see through him into his soul.

“I wanted to apologise,” he says. “I think I must have made you panic, yesterday, and I’m sorry. And you don’t – of course, you don’t have to do anything, only… I talked to Professor Neale, and she said the soloist spot’s yours. If you want it, that is. But you don’t have to,” he adds hastily after a moment, and Albus is sure it’s because of the utterly baffled look that’s crept onto his face without him realising.

“I do want it,” he says, “but I don’t deserve it.” He’s acutely aware of how close Scorpius is sitting – their two chairs are pushed so close together that their knees are brushing against each other. He could reach out and take Scorpius’ hand if he wanted. It feels like a repeat of yesterday afternoon, in the hospital wing, only this time Scorpius isn’t in pain and he’s watching Albus with this awful sincerity, and Albus is terrified of it.

“What do you want to do, then?”

Albus looks up to meet Scorpius’ eyes, and it’s a mistake. He looks stunning, here, in the warm comfort of the library, the glowing light that streams through the high windows shining like magic in his silver hair. Albus is overwhelmed by it, just for a moment. Then he catches himself.

“I don’t know,” he says earnestly. Something about the halo effect around Scorpius has made him want to be open about this. It’s always been too personal to talk about with anyone, but he thinks he can trust this boy who’s arrived disguised as an angel.

“I want to, but I’m scared. I don’t… perform, ever. Not by myself. It feels like – like baring my soul, and I can’t do it, I’ve never been able to. And this is my last chance, I know, and I want to be able to do it, but I don’t know if I can.”

He turns away, trying to get back into the book he was reading before, but Scorpius reaches out to take his hand. Albus’ breath hitches in his throat. _This is too close_ . There’s a crackle of electricity in the air, and maybe it’s real or maybe it’s magic or maybe he’s imagining it all, but he can feel a shift as _something_ changes. Scorpius’ thumb brushes over the back of his hand.

“I’ll tell Neale that you’ll do it, then.”

It’s what he wants, but he won’t say it out loud. He nods, and Scorpius meets his eyes and smiles his perfect, gorgeous smile and just for a second, Albus really believes that it will be enough. That he will be enough.

“You’ll be amazing, Albus.” There’s a crack in Scorpius’ voice as he speaks. “And I’ll be there to cheer you on.”

He squeezes Albus’ hand just before he gets up to go. Albus watches as Scorpius leaves, dumbstruck in both awe and terror at once, and wonders what he’s got himself into.

* * *

He has no time for anything, anymore. The next few days pass far too quickly, a whirlwind of notes and pages and fragments of sound. His music has taken over his life, more completely than it ever has before. There are no official classes, not now that exams are over, but there are career talks and work experience seminars scheduled for the seventh years. He _had_ been planning to go, before any of this happened, and Rose watches him with reproachful eyes as he excuses himself from the Slytherin common room again to head upstairs, but no amount of judgement from any family member is going to stop him from spending every moment he can spare in the practice room. It’s Monday now, and he doesn’t have long left to polish his piece before the concert. It’s frustrating; every time he fixes a passage, something new takes its place, and it feels endless, like he’ll never get it all right. The only thing he knows how to do is keep going. He ignores Rose when she tries to pull him away for a careers talk (“It’s _important_ , Albus, this is about your _future_ , you can’t risk that just for one show!”) until she finally gives up and leaves with a huff and some mumbled words he doesn’t want to hear. What she doesn’t realise is that this _is_ his future – terrifying as it is, much as he doesn’t believe in himself, it’s always been his dream. He’s not sure why it took him so long to realise.

* * *

Albus has been practicing later and later into the night the last few days; he’s found that he prefers the quiet darkness after most of the castle is in bed over any other time of day. The music rooms are almost always empty at this time, so it’s a surprise when he spots Scorpius through the little window in the door of the nearest room. He knocks on the door without thinking, and watches as Scorpius sets his viola down to answer it. “Hey,” Albus says, breathless, because Scorpius is leaning with one arm against the doorframe and he’s really quite close and the warm pink-red of his lips is very distracting.

“Hey, yourself,” Scorpius says, and his eyes sparkle. Albus tries not to notice. “You can take this room, if you want. I was about to go anyway.” He moves back to let Albus in. Albus hesitates for a moment – being this close to Scorpius, even just for a few moments, isn’t good for his concentration, but in the end he can’t resist. He hauls his cello case into the room and pulls the door closed behind him. Scorpius has a stand set up, and his instrument is laid carefully on top of its case. He starts packing away, and Albus realises that he’s holding himself more carefully than usual.

He watches as Scorpius moves his wrist, gingerly, like he’s scared it will break again if he stretches himself too far.

“Does it hurt?”

Scorpius looks up. Surprised, as though he’d forgotten that Albus was even there. “What?”

“I mean, does it hurt to play?” Albus asks again. “Since – you know.” He doesn’t want to say it. It’s too awful to even think about. It scares him.

“Not really,” Scorpius says, looking back to his music stand. “It feels different now, though. Hard to describe. Too… light.” His tone is casual, carefully calm, and Albus _feels_ the underlying sadness more than he hears it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and the room is small enough and they’re close enough together that he could reach out to touch Scorpius’ arm, if he wanted to. So he does. “You didn’t deserve this. You deserve that solo performance, and orchestra, and our group, and all of it. Everything you want. You’ve worked so hard for it.”

Scorpius won’t look him in the eyes. “So do you,” he mumbles, and pulls his arm away from Albus to carry on packing up. The _snap_ as he closes his instrument case echoes a little around the room.

“No,” Albus says loudly, “no, this isn’t about me. This is about how you had something important taken away, _stolen_ from you, and you won’t even react to it.”

“I don’t need your anger, Albus. I have enough of that already.” Scorpius’ eyes are burning grey. He watches as Albus spreads his hands out in front of him, palms up. A gesture of peace.

“Look, Scorpius,” Albus says, cautious but also _not_. Maybe this is reckless, thoughtless, maybe it’s none of his business, but he’s almost certain that there’s something hiding under the surface of all this. He felt it most strongly when they talked out on the balcony before, but it’s been there in the background in all of their conversations since. This…darkness. Maybe it’s none of his business, but he has to try.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I know there’s something, and it’s more than just you not being able to play properly right now, because I felt it before that happened. And you don’t have to – I wouldn’t expect you to tell me, we barely know each other.” It’s not _exactly_ how he feels, but he doesn’t know how Scorpius feels. He doesn’t know anything, and it’s beyond frustrating, but he also knows that he can’t push too hard. Just the right amount. “But you have to talk to someone. A friend, or your parents, or – hell, even a teacher. I don’t know. But I know – or I _think_ – you’re struggling, and I don’t want to see it anymore.”

“Well don’t watch, then,” Scorpius says, too calmly. A look of quiet horror crosses his face, as though he hadn’t been meaning to say anything at all, but Albus only gets a tiny glimpse of it as Scorpius turns to go. He watches Scorpius leave and can’t help the feeling that he’s made things even worse.

* * *

The soft creak of the door almost throws him off, but Albus thinks he’s sounded good so far this time, and he gets his rhythm back almost straight away. Whoever wants to interrupt him can wait.

Except that he spots a familiar mess of silver hair out of the corner of his eye, and everything crashes. His fingers slip on a low note and he can’t get back fast enough to keep the beat going and there’s no point in carrying on now, not really, so he stops. There’s a little frustrated growl in the back of his throat, but he tries not to let it out. It’s not Scorpius’ fault that Albus is half in love with him to the point where he can’t focus on anything when Scorpius is around.

“Why did you stop?” Scorpius asks as Albus turns to look at him properly. He looks nervous and fidgety and _sad_ , knotting his fingers together into strange contorted patterns as he speaks.

“Got distracted,” Albus mumbles, setting his bow down on the stand. “What’s up?”

Scorpius drags the spare chair over from the corner and sits down, so close to Albus that their knees are practically touching, and it’s reminiscent of that day in the library.

“I’m glad you’re still here,” he starts, and then the words start to spill out of him faster than Albus has ever heard anyone talk before. “I want – no, I need to apologise for earlier. I was rude, and I feel awful about it, but the thing is – well you’re right, of course you’re right, because you’re _you_ , Albus, and you notice things – and I should’ve talked to someone before but I was too scared – but I went away and thought about it and I can’t talk to my parents and I don’t have any friends, not _real_ friends, just people who tolerate me, and I realised that the only one I really want to talk to is _you_ , but you probably don’t want to know about all my–”

Scorpius cuts himself off mid-sentence as Albus shifts to rest his hand on Scorpius’ thigh. His heart is beating so loud he’s sure Scorpius can hear it echoing around the little room.

“Hey. Slow down,” Albus says. He’s not sure what’s going on yet, not exactly, and Scorpius is so worked up already that it’s hard to follow. Albus has never seen him like this before, and it’s almost scary. “It’s okay, just breathe.”

He watches Scorpius, lips parted and eyes flickering closed, as his chest rises and falls.

“You know, you can tell me anything, if you want to,” Albus says after a little while. Scorpius opens his eyes, and there’s a shine of tears behind them.

“Okay,” he says, voice carefully even, controlled. “It’s nothing good, though.”

Albus can’t help but let out a little half-laugh at that. “I’d worked that out for myself, actually.”

Scorpius takes another deep, stuttering breath before he speaks. “My family is cursed.”

It’s so far from anything Albus was expecting him to say, he can’t help the confusion that’s clear on his face. “ _What_?”

“I mean–” He scrambles for the right words. “I mean, not me, I’m fine. At least, I think I am. I would probably know by now. But my mother’s ancestor was cursed, generations ago, and it came back in her, and now she has this… illness.” His voice is shaky, but the set of his mouth is firm and determined. It’s the same face Albus has seen him wear in orchestra, when he’s lost in his music.

“It’s not life-threatening, as far as we know. But she…She wanted to be a musician, too, professionally, and she was _good_. I’ve seen old recordings, and she made her instrument sing like nothing I’ve ever heard. She was amazing.” Scorpius is smiling as he speaks, but it’s all infused with that same specific sadness Albus has seen in him before.

“Then she got sick, when she was about the age we are now. Too sick. And she had to stop. And I know she’s accepted it by now – as much as you can accept a loss like that – but it’s hard not to feel guilty. All of this – what we’re doing now, it’s what she should have had.” Scorpius stops to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand, and Albus feels so helpless – there’s nothing he can say, he knows he just has to listen, but it’s so hard to watch someone hurting this much. He nudges Scorpius’ foot with his own, and offers up a smile when Scorpius looks at him. The one he gets in return is watery and pale, but it’s there.

“It should’ve been me, you know? But instead she’s lost the thing she loved most, and I’ve got it all instead. I wish I could give it back to her.”

Albus has no idea what to say, because _of course_ Scorpius would feel like this about it all. It makes sense to him, now – why Scorpius has seemed so distant and reluctant to play. The weight of that kind of guilt – he knows all too well how dark thoughts can mess with someone’s music, their motivation.

“And when you…” he still doesn’t want to say it out loud, but Scorpius seems to know what he means straight away.

“When I was hurt, it felt like what I deserved. For escaping the curse. It felt _right_ , and I know that’s sick but it’s true. Like I’d been too lucky and everything had finally caught up with me.”

“No,” Albus breathes. “No, Scorpius, it’s not like that at all. You didn’t deserve it, you know that.”

“I know,” Scorpius says, and his voice is thick with tears. “It’s not the same, anyway. It’s not permanent. And I know it’s not what she wants for me, either. She wants me to succeed, I know she does. But I can’t help feeling like I don’t deserve that success.”

Albus takes Scorpius’ hands in his own. They’re cold, despite the summer heat. “Hey,” he says, as gently as he can manage. Scorpius looks down at their joined hands, then back up at Albus. His lips move, but no words come out.

“What happened to your mum – it’s awful, and I’m sorry. It can’t be easy to live with that kind of pressure on you. But maybe you should try talking to her about it? I can’t imagine she would want you to feel like this.”

“Maybe,” Scorpius says slowly. “But wouldn’t reminding her make it worse?”

 _Classic Hufflepuff_ , Albus thinks. _Not wanting to inconvenience anyone else_ . Honestly, he’s a little surprised that Scorpius has told him any of this, considering that he knows just how stressed Albus is at the moment. If it was anyone else, he’d have tried to get out of it, but this is _Scorpius_. Albus is too far gone for him to refuse him anything at this point.

“You won’t know until you try it,” he says, and this time when Scorpius smiles, it feels real. Albus squeezes his hands where he’s still holding them, and Scorpius returns the gesture.

“You’re right,” he says. “Thanks, Albus. You’re a real friend.”

He gets up to go, then, and leaves Albus with his cello and an empty room and an equally empty feeling in his chest. He tries to go back to practice, but Scorpius’ parting words just won’t leave him alone. _A real friend_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next update might take a while bc i'm also trying to write something for scorbus fest!!


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